


This Room Closes Its Windows

by orbiting_saturn



Series: The Misfit Boys 'verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fall apart again, but once they've woken, they'll come together again. It's a good incentive to rise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Room Closes Its Windows

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to _The Island of Misfit Boys_

When they come upon the farmhouse, set in the dying fields of a spring-cold Nebraska, it's not meant to be made a home. Miles and miles driven on broken roads in a hotwired SUV that's pushing the needle to empty and neither Cas nor Dean have spoken a word since Michael departed his vessel.

The SUV is playing a Loretta Lynn CD on repeat and no one complains, Dean glassy-eyed in the back seat, Cas rigid with pain and dead-eyed stoicism in the passenger. For Sam's part, silence is a matter of self-preservation. To speak would be an invitation for Cas' waspish insults, for his hardened insensitivity. Sam finds it strangely charming most days, the way his angel's taken to sarcasm, but not today. Not today or yesterday and probably not for several days following this one. Sam has Dean back and right now he has little room in his head or his heart for anything else.

Instead of speaking, Sam focuses on remaining alert, seeking sanctuary in what's become a wasteland. Not that Sam is convinced Nebraska has ever been anything more than that.

In a series of sputtering coughs, the SUV dies on Highway 20, between towns that aren't towns anymore. Broken hand cradled against his chest, Castiel hops out of the vehicle before it even coasts to a stop. He's impatient from sitting for too long in a confined space, which is not uncommon.

Sam opens the back driver side door and Dean steps out without any urging, but his eyes still have that dim far-off look to them. He's in there, but Dean's on vacation.

Cas is already dragging the bags out of the hold, handling everything just perfectly with his left hand. They travel lighter now than even before the war, just two light backpacks and a duffle of miscellaneous weapons, first aid and ritualistic herbs.

While Sam hauls up his pack and the duffle, Cas wanders into the center of the road, boots scuffing in the loose gravel of a pothole. Sam watches Cas, completely struck for a moment by how he looks back-dropped by the gray landscape. He's stubble-rough, straight-backed and sinewy, gazing off at the middle distance into the more and more nothing that surrounds them. Cas sees things that Sam can't see, like he sees into the soul of the land.

"This way," Cas breaks his vow of silence with a sideways nod of his head.

Sam follows Cas only after he's sure Dean will follow _him_. They stride off in the direction of Cas' choosing. When Cas glances back at Sam and Dean, he huffs in annoyance, rolls his eyes and turns to them.

The heavy duffle is yanked from Sam's shoulder by Cas, the sudden movement and redistribution of the weight pulling at Sam's muscles as Cas barely pauses. With a swing, Cas tosses the duffle straight at Dean, where it hits his chest with a small 'oof' of expelled breath. Before it can hit the ground, Dean instinctively catches the bag in the cradle of his arms and Cas twists back to Sam.

"He not disabled, he's sulking," Cas sneers as he strides back past Sam, who's mouth has fallen open in shock.

"Damnit, Cas," Sam finally bites irritably, hurrying after Cas' quickening pace. "You can't just-"

"Don't," Cas turns and interrupts. "Don’t fucking chastise me, Sam. I've earned my anger and you won't derail me with your moral high ground."

They walk in silence, in a scattered line, lost in their thoughts. Sam thinks of Castiel the angel and Cas the man. He thinks of his brother and all of the ways that he's broken and the ways he's broken them. They're low on water, Cas' hand needs to be looked at badly before infection sets into his split knuckles and Sam has to pee. It's about then that the burnt husk of a barn breaks on the horizon. Cas turns down a road off the highway, in the direction of that blackened shell and just a little further down they come upon the farmhouse.

Of the farmhouse, there's little to say. It's old and it's abandoned. It's dusty and dark, but there are kerosene lamps and a water pump in the sink. It's like it was put there specifically for them, to give them anything they could need, but nothing that they _want_. And there's a corpse on the porch, what was once an old man, sitting in a rocking chair. Sam thinks he passed peacefully away in his sleep. Or that's what he likes to think. That first night, he throws a handmade quilt over the body and plans to bury it the next day. He's surprised no animals have gotten to it.

Dean settles himself on the plaid printed sofa in the den, sits in the dark, quiet as a church. It's an hour of scouting the house, basement to attic, opening the windows to let it air out and laying down salt lines before Sam gets Cas seated at the kitchen table. He boils pump water on the gas stove, disinfects the cuts on Cas' hand.

"At least three of the bones are broken, probably more," Sam tells him, cradling the twisted and purple curl of Cas' once beautiful hand. "I've got reset them. It's going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch."

"Do it." Cas' face is placid, not a wince or a grimace. Sometimes Sam wonders if Cas remembers that the muscles in his face function. He spent so long with it as blank as a mask, it must feel peculiar to make the shift.

Sam removes his belt and folds it in half, places it between Cas' teeth and winces enough for the both of them as he yanks the twisted bones back into a more natural position. Some of them make a sickening crunch. When he's done, Sam wraps Cas' hand in what remains of their gauze and doubles over that with the strips of a torn t-shirt.

Cas' face is broken out in a sweat, cheeks streaked in pain tears. There's barely any light to see him by, but Sam tries to look anyway.

The scrape of Cas' chair legs against the floor is loud and sudden, Cas scooting into Sam's space and grabbing the back of his neck. The kiss is a surprise, the crash of Cas' lips against Sam's is almost biting. Cas tongues into his mouth, licks right in because he owns it and he knows it. It's a long kiss too, Cas sucking and biting at Sam's lips until they feel tingly and blood-full. Sam couldn't feel any less inclined towards sex at the moment, but he doesn't protest. Not. One. Bit.

Cas pulls back, breathing heavy, forehead pressed tightly to Sam's. "Are you still mine, Sam?" Cas asks, voice whiskey-rough and strangled.

Sam's eyes flutter closed, his palm blindly finds the curve of Cas' jaw. "Yeah, Cas. I'm yours."

~*~*~

Three days later, the body has been buried. Sam has dusted and swept and beaten the bedding. He's nesting, because he can, because he figures they can stay here a little while. They'll stay at least until Cas' hand is healed and until Dean wakes up. It's not like they have anywhere else to be or any way to get there.

It's on the third night that Sam deems Cas' knuckles scabbed enough to attempt a cast. Broken bones are one of the few injuries his dad took them to the hospital for, so Sam's going off of theory alone. He strips Cas of his shirt, washes his arm with bar soap and warm water and bastardizes a cast out of a clean sock, paper mache and rubber cement. It's fucking ugly and it's not nearly as tough as plaster, but Sam thinks it'll do unless Cas fucks with it too much. He's not too optimistic that he won't be half-assing repairs on the thing since Cas is impatient and when the itching starts up, won't abide the discomfort.

"Try not to pick at it too much, 'kay?" Sam tells Cas.

"Mm hmm," Cas hums his agreement, reaching into the cast iron pot on the table that holds warm, soapy water and a bleached white washcloth. With one hand, Cas wrings the excess water in a long stream before bringing it to his neck. Sam falls back in his chair and watches with a slow, simmering arousal as Cas slides the washcloth over the bare curve of his neck, down into the dip between his pecs. The water beads up and leaves a dim sheen on his pale, pale skin.

"I feel filthy," Cas observes as he starts to scrub. He's seemingly oblivious to the way his little show is making Sam's breath catch and his dick swell. They've had this thing between them for a few months now and it's just occurred to Sam that he's never seen Cas naked.

"Let me help you," Sam offers, knows that the gruffness of voice gives away his growing excitement, but he's shameless about it, like he always is with Cas.

Cas looks up at him, pupils going wide as he watches the sweep of Sam's tongue across his lower lip. He passes the washcloth to Sam and waits, slouched against the high-backed kitchen chair.

Sam rises up, feeling the ache of every sore muscle in his body, feeling the long, hard press of his dick trapped in his jeans while he rounds Cas' chair. The soggy cloth has gone cold in Sam's hand, so he dips it into the pot on the table, water gone tepid, but still warm enough. When he presses the cloth to the back of Cas' neck, he tries to follow the direction of each drop trickling down every rib and vertebrae, forces down the urge to bend down and lick them up. Instead he scrubs old sweat from the wings of Cas' shoulder blades, the dip of his spine, all along the low, low waist of his loose cargo pants.

Bent at the waist, Sam braces his free hand against Cas' shoulder, skirts the cloth around the slim dip of Cas' waist and the fingers the bumps of his ribs. Too skinny, too fine, Cas tilts his head back on Sam's shoulder and turns his face into his neck. "Let's go fuck," Cas breathes out and bites at Sam's ear.

"Hell, yes," Sam sighs, already bursting at the seams with so much wanting.

Cas' chair scrapes the floor as he rises, full of that single-minded determination, just as righteous in this as he is in _any_ cause. Sam trails after him, hand clasped tightly in Cas' as he's lead past the den to the stairs. Sam glances worriedly into the den, but Dean's head is turned from them, doesn't see the way they touch intimately. Sam is concerned how Dean might react to knowing, suspects it could draw him further into himself. He can't tell Cas about this worry though, so it's all eventual.

The room that they've chosen is fucking hideous. It's worse than every hotel room in every state in every backwater town Sam and Dean ever stopped in. Sam chooses not to dwell on it, focuses only on Cas and the way he drags Sam's mouth to his, eats at it fiercely and slickly. "Take your clothes off," Cas demands with a low rumble. "I want to see you. All of you."

Cas pulls back just far enough to watch and it makes Sam's stomach flip nervously. He's finally fully aware that his body isn't what it was, too little food and always on the run, Sam's back to more lanky, all that toned bulk he strived for lost with all the rest. But Sam doesn't stall, peels his shirt up and off, opens and drops his pants under that heavy, blue stare.

Cas' fingers twitch forward like he's going to reach out, like he wants to touch Sam and- _God_ \- he wants that.

"Get on the bed," Cas directs, nods his head towards the bed as his eyes slide down and over Sam's body.

Naked, Sam crawls onto their bed, lays himself down with his cheek and cock flush to the mattress. When Cas joins him, he's bared too. Sam feels it from the brush of their skin, the catch of fine hair against his legs. Cas' undamaged hand skates down Sam's spine, smoothes into the dip roughly, possessively. "Turn over," Cas instructs him.

Sam clutches the sheets a little, hangs on because they've never done it face to face before. They've never seen each other's eyes at that moment Cas pushes in. And Sam knows that Cas knows how much he loves it, but it's different if he can see.

"Turn over," Cas urges again, clasping Sam at the hip and pulling a little.

Sam turns, breath heaving and shaky, trembling a little when Cas straddles him, tilts their hips together. The slow, raunchy grind of Cas' cock against his own has Sam arching up, hissing through his teeth. They haven't done this for a while, Cas not much of one for foreplay and preferring to have Sam's mouth or ass in quick, dirty slides that to get them off as fast and hard as possible. Sam likes this though, a lot, and Cas knows what Sam likes, can read all the tells of his body like a second language.

"You like when I'm inside you, Sam?" Cas rasps into the hot, sweaty space of Sam's neck. His hips swivel against Sam's, riding the trapped line of Sam's hard-on so sweetly, so tightly.

"Yes," Sam whispers back, voice caught on a moan.

"It feels good to you?" Cas asks now, kissing and licking at Sam, dragging his lips over the edge of Sam's jaw.

"Yes," Sam answers again, his thighs falling apart in invitation. He's ready to open up for Cas, to let him in, more than ready for it.

"I want to know that feeling," Cas confesses and raises his upper body up. He's keeping his injured arm tucked protectively against his side, but Cas grasps Sam's wrist and brings it up to suck two fingers lewdly into his mouth while his hips keep up that slow rocking sway.

Sam can't figure how the hell Cas knows to do these things, if he watched humans fucking for eons or if it's pure instinct. He thinks it's the latter because Cas fucks like an animal, all artless need and biting, rutting hunger. Sam feels it all in the raw, wet sucking of Cas' warm mouth. The fingers slide out spit-shiny, soaked wet, dragging Cas' soft pink lip down so Sam gets a flash of his sharp, white teeth.

"Put them in me." Cas rises up on his knees, takes the warm pressure off of Sam's aching dick, but gives him space to work his hand between Cas' spread thighs. But Sam hesitates because this isn't how they do things. "I want it. I want to shake apart like you do for me. Put them in me."

The space between Cas' thighs is humid, Sam's fingers working up under the weight of Cas' tight balls until he can feel the furl. Sam does what Cas did for him on his first time taking it in the ass, wraps his free hand around Cas' dick, stroking it nice and firm to distract from the push. Cas huffs and slaps his free hand down in the center of Sam's chest right when he's breached, when Sam gets his fingers shoved up and all the way in.

Even with the steady strokes of Sam's hand on his dick, Cas' brows are knit with discomfort, so Sam crooks his fingers and watches, watches that expression shift. Cas' mouth falls softly open, breath hitching and Sam loves that look on him, opens his fingers to stretch and nudges back into the bump of Cas' prostate.

"Fuck, yeah," Cas grunts, humps down on Sam's hand then up into the curl of his other. On the next rise of Cas' hips, he grips Sam's wrist and pulls, squirms a little when the fingers slide out of him. Like always, when Cas has his mind set to do something, he does it with determination and without preamble. He spits into his hand, slides the wetness of it over Sam's cock and guides it inelegantly to his hole.

Sam wants to tell Cas to be careful, to slow him down because he knows not everyone can take a cock in the ass the way _he_ does, but he's too late anyway. Cas is sinking down on him, closing so tightly around the head of Sam's dick that they're both shaking from the sensations.

Cas' brow is tight again, but he powers through, sinks all the way down 'til their flush and Sam is deep, so deep. If Cas weren't such a vice, Sam could come already, just unload completely inside of Cas and melt into him.

Just the thought, the _idea_ of being inside of Cas is making Sam crazy. The actuality of it, the slow, gritty drag of Cas rising up and sinking down is impossible, unreal. Palm slapping back down onto Sam's chest, Cas pins him with his leverage and starts riding him slow and hard. "Touch me," Cas growls, sinking down again. "Stroke me."

Sam hadn't realized that he'd taken his grip off of Cas' dick, clenched it tight in the sheets the second Cas positioned himself for that first insane push. He brings it up now, wraps Cas up in his long fingers and gives him the exactly right pressure, focuses on exactly that to make it as good as he can.

That's just the thing to set Cas off, get his hips lifting and driving, fucking himself up and down, down and up. Sam's trembling and fighting the urge drive his hips up, wanting to let Cas handle this ride at his own pace. Sam just pulls at Cas' cock, lets his fingers find every vein and groove, sweep the slit. Cas' hand slips in the sweat on Sam's chest and he falls forward, fingers scrabbling for purchase and finding it at the curve of Sam's throat.

The very moment Cas' hand presses tightly to Sam's windpipe, he loses his senses. Breath caught and stymied under that pressure, Sam rocks up hard, nearly unseating Cas. Sam's eyes lock with Cas' and he sees the curiosity unfold there, even through the glaze of frantic lust and then Cas' fingers tighten further, blocking Sam's air almost completely.

Head swimming and dizzy, Sam's lids flutter closed, all blood rushing south until he's jerking up to meet Cas' next thrust. Muscles locked tight, Sam starts to come hard, jolting pulses so intense they hurt a little. He pulses over and over, spilling in trembling burst for what feels like an impossibly long time, slicking Cas up on the inside where it coats Sam's length.

The grip on his throat loosens and Sam sucks up the oxygen in greedy gasps, nerves frayed and tingling. His vision is blurred when he opens his eyes, but there's no time to focus as Cas pulls off of his still mostly-hard prick.

They're both coated in sticky sweat, musky with the scent of Sam's come and days of going unwashed. Cas crawls up Sam's body, brackets Sam's torso with his knees and paints the head of his cock over Sam's lips. "Open up for me," Cas grates out urgently.

Sam lets his jaw fall on a moan and Cas slides right into his mouth. He's salty with precome, dick swollen desperately and the head nudges right into Sam's throat. He isn't given time to relax before Cas is thrusting into him, dick moving over his tongue, past his lips, fucking into his throat. Sam closes his mouth on it and sucks, let's Cas ride his face faster and harder than he rode his cock.

It doesn't take long for Cas to finish though. He grabs Sam's hair tight at the crown, jerks his hips forward and drives into Sam's throat where he pours into him. It's actually easier to swallow this way, Cas' come sliding right down him while Sam works his tongue against his gag reflex. Somehow, impossibly, Sam's dick gives another intense pulse, like a delayed aftershock while Cas churns his hips into Sam's face.

Sam actually has to shove Cas away, breath too short and throat struggling and raw. Cas tilts himself clumsily and falls to Sam's side, the bedsprings creaking loudly. The two of them lie silently catching their breaths. It's takes Sam a little longer to calm, swallowing spit to ease the burn of his used throat. He'd love a glass of cold water, but can't see himself moving any time soon, now that his bones have been melted to goo.

Finally, after full minutes of shaky quiet and burning breaths, Cas twists his head towards Sam and asks, "Did you like that?"

It probably wouldn't be inappropriate to laugh or roll his eyes at the question, but there's something off in the way Cas asks, there's something too serious and suspiciously vulnerable in the slight inflection on the word 'you'.

"Did _you_ like it?" Sam parrots back cautiously, eyes averted from Cas, caught on the ceiling and a dim water stain he thinks he'll have to fix at some point if they stay on here.

"Some of it," Cas answers. He also sounds cautious, careful, like there's something tenuous between them that's never been there before.

Sam's thinking through a response when Cas chimes in again. "Does it always hurt? When I fu- When I'm inside of you?"

"Yeah, but not in a bad way. I like it to hurt a little."

"We can do it this way more often. If that's what you want," Cas offers.

Sam doesn't like the way Cas sounds right now. He never sounds like this with Sam, like he's unsure of himself or he's unsure of _Sam_. Twisting onto his side, Sam forces himself to look at Cas, folding his arm up to pillow his head. Cas doesn't look back at him, but then, Sam didn't really expect him to.

"No, that's not what I want," Sam tells Cas honestly. "Cas, what's this all about?"

Cas flicks a glance at Sam from the corner of his eye, huffs and sets his jaw with irritation. He's no worse than Dean when it comes to talking about feelings. Cas doesn't like to, but he's always more forthright and honest when pressed.

"Dean is back now. Things will change."

It makes sense. And of course it's true, but it never occurred to Sam that Cas might think this thing of theirs would be ending because of it.

"Not this. Not if you don't want it to," Sam tells him forcefully. If this thing with Cas doesn't last, it won't be because of Sam. If there's any good thing that came from the mess of his life, it's this. Sam doesn't deserve it, and a part of him thinks he might have stolen it, but he won't give it up. When it really comes down to it, Sam's always been selfish.

"Good," Cas finally replies. He turns carefully to face Sam, throws one bare leg over Sam's thigh and presses closely. Cas nudges Sam's nose with his own, nuzzling at him like a lazy cat before licking in between his lips. They don't kiss, not really, just a couple of filthy laps from Cas' tongue before he's dragging back again.

"After we sleep, I'm going to fuck you. I'll do it just how you like it, Sam."

For the first time in a good long while, Sam smiles. It's a weak and tired one, but it's there all the same, and it's all for Cas. They fall apart again, but once they've woken, they'll come together again. It's a good incentive to rise.

~*~*~  
End


End file.
